These Old Roads
by The King in White
Summary: Thorin Oakenshield follows his sister-sons into death, bitterly cursing the mistakes of his long life. Then he wakes up, and he is young again (and again, and again) as the desolation of a dragon comes. "Am I cursed?"


Disclaimer: I don't own The Hobbit, or Lord of The Rings, or anything else in the Tolkien legendarium. I make no profit writing this, and never will make a profit writing this.

(AN): Oh hush little chilluns. I had Thorin on the mind for the past few days and it's harder to write more **Chasing Yesterday **until I get some of this off my chest.

* * *

_"Farewell good thief – I go now to the Halls of Waiting to sit beside my fathers until the world is renewed. Since I leave now all gold and silver and go to where it is of little worth, I wish to part in friendship from you, and take back my words at the Gate." - Thorin Oakenshield_

* * *

The stone was grey, sharp-cut and engraved with the hard lines and angles of dwarrow decoration. A pyramid here, a square there, solid shapes bordering about a great many pointed star.

His eyes were grey, shimmering silver in the light of torches beneath the stone. Glazed with shock and befuddlement, shuttering with slow blinks and staring blankly at the fine dwarven artwork as if it simply did not exist.

"Am I in Hell?" Thorin wondered aloud with a shaky breath. Because where else could the dead King be but beyond the Doors of Night in some realm of torment if his first sight of the afterlife was the ceiling of his childhood room in Erebor?

A pounding fist on wood rung through the still air of Thorin's chambers.

Stirring sluggishly from his tangled and sweaty sheets, Thorin rose from his bed and padded across the room and threw the double doors open.

A dwarven guard stood on the other side, staring blankly at the Prince of Erebor from under ginger brows.

Thorin stared back.

"My Lord?" the soldier ventured, shuffling in the ornate plating and gold embossed mail of the Royal Guard. "My Lord – well..."

A slow blink. "Yes?"

"You're... in a state of undress, My Lord. Pardon me for saying so."

Casting a slow silver gaze down at his naked flesh, Thorin shrugged "Ah.". Then shivered as a draft blew in from an overhead ventilation shaft.

Averting dark eyes, the guard coughed "Shall I leave you to dress, My Lord?"

"Yes." Thorin agreed blankly to the prompt. Turning about the dwarf prince flung the doors shut behind him.

What a strange hell.

* * *

Clad in silvered mail and indigo cloth with a steel blade of the finest dwarven make at his side, Thorin Oakenshield stepped through the halls of his childhood home.

Each turn and corridor brought another familiar sight with all the bitter sting of childhood recollection.

The secret passage to the kitchens that he and Frerin had crept down many a night to rob scones and other sweets from the baking trays. And the cook – sweet, fat Bambur, grinning at the young Princes with a twinkle in his eye and all the good nature of the sons (_Oh Bofur, oh dear Bombur_) he fathered on the slopes of Ered Luin.

Shimmering shallow pools of water, laid over silver and black stone in a beautiful tribute to the Mirrormere where Dis had played naked and squealing as a child. Thorin remembered burning red with embarrassment as the passerby dwarves either laughed at the naked imp or huffed in shock.

One of the many great libraries scattered throughout the Mountain where Balin and his father Fundin had tutored the young Thorin about the languages and histories of Middle Earth. Filled with tomes written in a dozen learned and dead tongues that recalled lore forgotten by many.

The great echoing chambers that spanned over upward into the shadow of the mountain where the merchants and officials from Erebor and Dale would meet monthly to haggle prices, regulations, politics, parties, and other topics vitally important to the running of a Kingdom and vitally unimportant to starving exiles wandering the wilderness.

Here too were the great gates of the Kingdom of Erebor. Built strong from stone and steel to ward out any fool invader desperate enough to try and assault the dwaven realm and steal the riches within.

It was too much.

Throwing back his head in a booming maniacal laugh that echoed about the cavern and drew odd glances from passing men and dwarves and a concerned look from his accompanying guard, Thorin laughed.

And Thorin wept. Heaving choking sobs at the unfairness of this afterlife he had been consigned to. Doomed to wander the halls of his Homeland in bitter regret. Drinking in the sights of a burnt nation restored to all the glory of his childhood and knowing that all the might of Erebor amounted to little in the end.

Thorin was still laughing and sobbing when the gates burst in with a furious explosion, dragonfire licking about and burning screaming citizens and children as they fled from the greed and violence of a monster.

He stopped laughing when great rocks sent flying by the writhing worm flew through the air to crush his skull.

* * *

Thorin blinked up at the ceiling in a daze, drinking in the sharp carvings with a desperate attention to detail.

"What?" the dwarf Prince muttered, rolling from the bed and tumbling to the smooth hewn stones. "What?" breathed again, as Thorin stared between the gaps of his splayed hands at the grey floor.

He... died again? Was this to be his hell? Dying over and over in Erebor as the dragon attacked?

The dragon.

Smaug.

A low growl burnt through Thorin's throat, fury roaring in every vein as he unconciously began to claw at the stone with a more and more violent curl. Blood cracked and broke around his nails as Thorin curved his spine like a cat, every vertebrae thrown into stark relief through the murderous tension in every muscle.

Mahal be cursed if that was to be his fate. And Illuvatar be damned if he would ever merely lie down and accept such a torment.

A rumbling thump echoed through the chamber again as The Guard hammered an impatient fist into the wood.

_"What!?"_ Thorin howled, a torturous scream tearing from his throat.

Silence greeted him in reply, and with another growl Thorin yanked on his trousers and mail and threw the door open.

Pale faced and stammering, the Royal Guard failed to grunt out a reply before Thorin slammed the door shut with a crash.

Only to open it a short minute later clad in mail with a naked blade clenched in a white-knuckled fist.

Misinterpreting the pure murder written in the Prince's face, the soldier desperately threw himself to the side.

Thorin ignored the shaking dwarf as he stalked down the corridors of Erebor with all the lethal grace of a predator.

The guard caught up with him just short of the gates, jumping in surprise when Thorin raised the glittering steel sword over his head and screamed out with all the breath in his lungs _"Dragon!"_

Shrieks greeted his proclaimation as men and even a few women rushed about in a confused frenzy, scooping up wandering children and tossing fearful glances at the Prince.

Minutes trickled past, Thorin keeping a grim eye on the gates and waiting. Waiting for the people to flee. Waiting for the guard to assemble. Waiting for Black Arrows to be gathered.

"What are you waiting for?" he finally shouted at the huddled mass of confused citizenry. "Flee! Flee for your lives! Summon the guard!"

"He's gone mad." the red-haired soldier grunted behind him, motioning frantically at one of his befuddled comrades.

"But not _deaf_!"Thorin roared, pointing a furious blade at the naysayer who had vocalized the creeping doubts and worries of the people.

Jumping back from the swinging blade, the guard drew his shield from his back and barked out "Someone find the King!" before closing with Thorin in a clash of ringing steel.

Hesitantly joining their comrade, other members and common soldiers encircled the maddened Prince in a ring of curved shields and held against Thorin's increasingly desperate blows.

"Thorin!" broke over the fury. The pressing guards drew back as a regal black haired dwarf pushed past them, carefully drinking in the Prince's appearance through narrow silver eyes.

_"Khagam." _Thorin greeted with heartbreak in his eyes and sorrow in his mouth. Drinking in the scattered silver strands amoung the black hair. The gold trimmed violet robes and expertly crafted mail. The high brow and long nose and chin _exactly like his own_.

And Thrain, son of Thror drew back, eyes widening at the naked grief he read in his son's face. Reaching a trembling hand towards Thorin, Thrain murmured "Oh my son, what has _happened_?"

Then the world exploded, stone flinging through the air and a screech of flames sending the dwarven people scrambling for their lives.

And a father reaching out for his broken son before the flames of Smaug the Terrible consumed them both in a crackle of red hot agony.

* * *

This time Thorin threw himself from the sheets, pulling on his clothes in such a rush that he ended up tearing the trousers and having to waste precious time searching for a second pair.

A single knock rang through the air and Thorin was pushing out, shoving his confused red-haired guard to the side so violently the dwarf tumbled to the floor.

Stone pounded beneath the Prince's feet as he delved deeper and deeper into Erebor, finally heaving his body into the doors of the armory and crashing through in a heap of limbs.

Thorin gained his feet in a scramble and began to tear the room apart. Swords and spears and shields clattered in a broken symphony as the Prince searched with an increasing desperation through shining racks and dusty chest until at last he struck ebony gold.

Trembling hands scooped up dust covered black arrows, clutching the precious missiles to his chest as Thorin stumbed from the room.

His returning to the surface was slower going, laden with the precious dark steel arrows.

Eventually Thorin shoved past curious guards ignored their odd glances as he ascended the last staircase and crowned the gates of Erebor.

"What in the name of Mahal are you _doing_, laddie?" Balin stared at him, shielding dark eyes with a palm over his face.

"Saving your life, old friend." Thorin muttered, picking through the heap of black arrows and tossing aside the chipped and bent.

A warm, hot wind blew over the mountain with the force of a hurricane, and Balin ducked under a snapped banner. "What is it?"

"Dragon." Thorin grunted, pulling up a dark iron shaft and slotting it into one of the few windlances that dotted the Gates of Erebor.

Bushy grey brows rose in surprise and fear as the older dwarf cried out "Dragon!"

A flurry of stomping boots greeted his proclamation, shouting orders and questions that Balin proceeded to ignore as he bent down to swipe up a Black Arrow and run along the wall to shove it into another windlance.

Thorin gripped the curved metal prongs of the Dwarven catapult with white knuckles and waited.

A breath later _he_ came. Dark and so red and shimmering crimson under the sunlight as the winged reptile breathed out a spout of flame.

Dale began to scream and burn and die, and still Thorin waited as Smaug lashed out with flame and tail and wing and claw and killed a thousand men. Waited as the fire drake laughed aloud in his cruel and terrible voice. Waited until the dragon whirled away from his wanton destruction to face the prize he had sought.

Erebor.

Thorin fired, releasing the black arrow in a whistle of wind over metal to clang off the durable scales of the dragon.

Without missing a beat, the dwarf Prince bent low and scooped another projectile up. Fittting it through the catapult and firing it. And another and another, until his fingers bled because of the snapping parts of the Windlance.

Kept firing his desperate arrows to bounce off again and again, missing the mark as Smaug drew closer and _breathed_.

And Thorin was burning. Burning, burning, and _pain_.

* * *

His trousers are around his ankles before he could even begin to think – to swallow past the pounding in his temples and throw on mail.

Leaping through the door in a flash of blue and silver, Thorin left behind a befuddled guard with his fist in the air.

Thorin is vaguely aware of the shocked cries that result when he elbows past the throng of merchant traveling to and from the city of Dale, but the dwarf prince is so far beyond caring in the moment that he merely ignores the demands for basic respect.

The only thing that matters is gaining the top of the Gates, and then striding back and forth across the parapets with naked steel in his hand and grim eyes on the sky.

Balin joins him when the whispers of concerned watchmen relay to him the strange weather – such a hot, dry wind! - and the strange prince – so tense and pacing!

"Thorin?" rises up from the throat of the concerned older dwarf. Dark eyes under dark brows watch the royal with undisguised regard. "Is something the matter?"

Snapping fills the air as the wind suddenly gusts, sending the banners into a flurry. Pines rustle and creak.

Thorin's grip tightens around the hilt of his blade.

Growling out darkly "The dragon comes," Thorin continues to peer at the corners of the horizon. Waiting for the telltale flash of blood-red scales. He is only vaguely aware of Balin's rushing and shouting, the march of boots and screamed orders as Erebor comes alive and aware to the threat in a way it never had been.

Erebor is more ready for Smaug's coming than in all Thorin's lives.

It is not enough.

Red flashes, and Thorin is grasping Balin by the back of the shorter dwarf's coat and dragging him behind a pillar.

Struggling against the choking hold of the Prince for long moments, the son of Fundin is just able to throw off the thick arm with rage and charge out into the open as Smaug bears against the gate. Flame lances through the air, roasting the dwarf in a furnace of pain along with his comrades.

Thorin merely closes his eyes to the screams and stench of burning flesh.

Again Smaug draws in a great heave, blasting out an inferno and roasting the stone until much of it glows cherry red through the smoke and ash.

A great thump and creak rolls through the wall beneath his feet, and then Thorin runs.

The flesh of his feet burn despite the protection of his iron boots as he charges across the top of the gate, and the flesh of his hand sizzles and bakes when he reaches out to heave himself up and over the precipice.

Wind whistles through his ears as Thorin drops from the sky, landing on red scales with a great whump of force.

* * *

Smaug goes wild, thrashing about in great spasms and throwing his long sinious body through loops and rolls in an attempt to dislodge the dwarf prince clinging to his horns.

Nausea roiled through Thorin as the world whirled by, flashing about in a flash of colours and sound. Smaug bucks between his knees, once – twice – _thrice, _and then the prince wraps hands around the hilt of his blade and stabs_ down_.

An unholy screech fills the air as the dragon wriggles in death throes, snapping back and finally dislodging the prince.

Thorin flies through the air, wind tearing at the folds of his clothes and filling his ears. Flies across and crashes into a flame-wreathed spire.

Bones snap under the force of the collision, giving way to the stone before Thorin falls further. Falls straight down and crashes into the cobblestones of Dale with another cracking of bone.

Filling the spaces of his lungs is blood that stains red against the fine silver craft of his mail. Darkens his carefully sewn blue coat black. Spills bright and crimson across the stones.

Thorin is aware of a human child leaning down over him, face pale and shaking and crying for his mother as he dies.

* * *

If he cannot attack from above, then he will assault from below.

It is not death that Thorin fears (since he has already died many times) as he lines up with the soldiers of the Kingdom as the call to arms sounds out. But rather the despairing persistence of whatever void he was living in that consigned him to struggle again and again against the calamity that destroyed the livelihood and homes of thousands.

Smoke fills his lungs, stinking of burnt flesh and the raw scent of a dragon as Smaug roars in the distance. Black shadows flash around the wall, sunlight flickering in and out of his sight before the Gates groan.

Oak and steel bend under the blows, contorting further and further out of shape before finally giving in with a great clatter.

Stone flies through the air as the greedy dragon hammers away at the opening, tearing through the defences of the Kingdom with abandon and selfish longing for the dwarves' treasure.

Thorin steps forward, ignoring the shouts of his kith and kin as he takes steel in his hand and runs. Feet pounding across the ground just to throw himself down when Smaug _finally_ slithers forth.

Casting an amused glance down at the prince, Smaug ignores the dwarf in his hast for gold and silver and star-filled gems. The dragon lurches forward, crawling straight over the fleeing dwarves and screaming men.

It is a fatal mistake when Thorin stabs up, shoving a hard point through the only open gap in the dragon's armour. For Thorin remembers a life before death, a gentle Hobbit, and a rumour and confirmation that the Black Arrow of Girion found its mark.

Smaug screams, fear worming through the lizard's brain as his great heart shudders in an attempt to beat. Vainly twitching around the blade that had rent it.

Scorching hot, black blood pours out from between the scales. Spraying into coldly glittering silver-grey eyes and blinding Thorin in a haze of boiling pain and darkness.

The dwarf prince blinks rapidly, attempting to clear his sight despite knowing in his heart that his eyes are forever ruined.

Thorin is still blinking when Smaug screeches his last and collapses, great red limbs curling underneath him and going limp. Crashing down to crush the dwarf that slew him in a bone-shattering pressure.

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, dies drowning in his own blood (again).

* * *

Thorin - _amazingly -_ survives the assault of the dragon.

It is the first time his strange unlife took him beyond the walls of Erebor.

A blank mind and despairing heart led him through the motions as Thorin found himself merely reduced to following the steps he'd taken the very first time he'd lived as a boy in Erebor.

Thorin rises from his bed when the guard knocks, allowing the man to lead him through his usual appointments (or what had been usual when he's actually been a boy and alive).

He visits Frerin, giving his younger brother a vague and teasing piece of advice to improve swordplay.

Dis crosses his path later, giggling and hugging her oldest brother's legs and begging for a trip to the kitchen for sweets. She is brushed off with a vague promise to sneak her cookies.

Gold glitters as Mad Thror wanders through it, rubbing greedy hands and drinking in the sights of the vast treasure horde with adoring eyes. And Thorin stands in the shadows watching, before finally turning away when the older dwarf runs fingers through a sea of shining coins.

And when a sweating soldier finally finds him to tell him about Balin's – dear Balin's! - concern with the hurricane from the North, Thorin allows himself to be led to the top of the Gates.

Moving through the motions, Thorin orders the older dwarf to call out the guard because of the threat of a dragon. And then screams with all that is in him through the caverns "_Dragon!"_

Leading the troops to defend the Gates is easy. Infinitely so when Thorin knows that Smaug will come through in wrath and flame and kill them all. Save Thorin, laying on his back to watch scales crawl by overhead as the Great Worm seeks the bounty of Thror.

Thorin stumbles from the Gates in a daze of pain and wreathed in smoke, to stand on the bridge ferrying fleeing dwarves and screaming for them to run.

Then Thranduil crests the rise over the valley of Dale, golden hair fluttering in the breeze and flanked by a thousand well armed Eldar in their golden plate.

It all crystallizes and becomes _achingly_ clear.

And even though he knows it's a desperate plea, and even though he hates knowing it will not be answered. Thorin still reaches an arm to wave and scream "_Help us!"_

Just as before – that first innocent time when a young dwarf prince had faith in the world. - the King of the Greenwood turns away on his elk steed, leading his immortal kin back to the trees they called home.

And just as Before, Thorin felt the sour burn of betrayal and _you-lack-all-honour_ in his stomach and knew that it was impossible for him to ever forgive or _ever_ forget.

It is beneath the moon that Thorin realizes everything is different.

Locating Balin is easy, especially when the older dwarf had also been looking for him.

Balin shows himself accompanied by a pale-faced Frerin whose blue eyes seem too large for his face. But Dis is gone, and Thorin knows instinctively that there is some great wrong afoot.

"Where is my sister?" tears out of his hoarse throat, making Balin stiffen and Frerin look aside in distress.

"I am sorry laddie." Balin croaks back, blinking away tears. "She didn't make it."

Thorin feels blood roar in his ears, and he is unsure if it's him or his younger brother that keens like a wounded animal with grief.

He only remembers _thank-you_ and _you-did-all-you-could. _And that in the murky recesses of his mind he recalls that in Thorin's first true life he had ordered Balin to find his family.

Blue winds alongside him as Thorin stumbles drunkenly along the banks of the River Running. Long Lake shines with pale light in the distance, and Thorin rants and raves and cries all alone under the stars.

His body is still moving under subconscious command when he draws the steel at his side with a quiet hiss and presses it to his neck.

Thorin's muscles clench and shiver and then _move_, and his throat is reduced to a red ruin.

Thorin dies gurgling in his own blood beneath the stars.

It is the first time he kills himself.

* * *

Choosing the manner of his own death is incredibly liberating Thorin realizes.

Sometimes he throws himself like a grotesque swan from the balconies, unable to simply deal with the failures of his constant attempts to save his country.

One time he dies with an elven arrow in his chest. He flees the mountain as soon as he wakes, desperately searching for Thranduil and abasing himself before the King of the Greenwood. Begging and pleading and _grabbing_ to try to save his people.

Another time he perishes between the teeth of Smaug when he dives screaming and slashing into the beast's gullet. Thorin remembers it fondly because of the way Smaug choked and pleaded before they both died drowning in the dragon's black blood.

Sometimes he hunts his siblings and just holds them, pressing them into his chest and just _being their brother _as the world crashes down and they all perish under dragonfire and stone.

Only once does he slay Thror, slamming a knife through his grandfather's eye and screaming madly "You let them die! _You let them die!_" Thorin himself passes from that life with arrows and a sword in his back, and never sees the dragon.

* * *

Eventually Thorin bows down, and remembers. He proceeds through the dragon's attack like he had when he had truly been young and innocent.

He remembers to save Balin's life, and immediately order his old friend to find his siblings.

He remembers to lead his men in a failed last stand and lie beneath the stench of the dragon as the great worm slithers over him.

He remembers to push and drag crying men and women and children through the Gates and along the bridge and through Dale.

He remembers to scream for aid that he knows will never come.

And when the moon rises and Frerin is sitting hollow-eyed beside his father and Dis – _sweet, golden Dis!_ - is sobbing into his jerkin and clutching at her brother when the world falls down around her, Thorin holds her to his chest and stares at the stars above.

Perhaps it is Mahal that tossed him in such a hell, or Illuvatar himself. Or even Morgoth – the Great Enemy – had somehow reached out and seized his soul and cursed him to such an existence.

Thorin breathes in around the chasm of his heart, and finally croaks out to whatever Power is listening.

"Am I cursed?"

* * *

(AN) Only 4000 words, ew gross. You'll notice I can't be arsed to actually hunt down the special characters for names and for Khuzdul.

This is meant as a blend of storyverse and movieverse, and as such I've had to look through all the dates (as well as events and blend them) and adjust for people's appearances. At the Fall of Erebor (TA 2770) the ages of those concerned was:

Thorin (24), and Balin (7) were the only members of the Company at Erebor for sure when Smaug came. Which does not match up for Balin AT ALL already being a geezer when Smaug came. And dwarves live about 250 years. Smaug is killed in TA 2941 (170 years later), so Thorin and Balin would be old enough to look old (as they are described in the books).

However, I'm a fan of Thorin's movie appearance, so I'll keep that by flying with that those in the direct descent from Durin have longer lifespans and age slower (keeping Thorin younger for longer). And I'll roll Balin's birth back so he's 80 when Smaug comes, which is enough of a gap for Dwalin to look younger significantly than his brother.

Frerin is 19 when Smaug comes, and Dis is 10. I'll roll Frerin back to being 15 and Dis can be 6 because much family cuddles.

Dori, Ori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur have no recorded birthdates. So I'll divide them up as I will in post-Fall of pre-fall. Ori is in the films even younger than Fili and Kili, so he's out. Bofur looks young, so I'll cut him out. **Dori** is the oldest brother, so I'll throw him in. Nori is out because I'll put him halfway between is brother. Bifur is not even a Longbeard, so he's not even at Erebor even if I do decide to make him that old (even if he is Bofur's cousin). And Bombur doesn't appear that old.

Fili, Kili, Oin, Gloin, Dwalin were are born in Tolkien's record after the Fall of Erebor. Oin and Dwalin very shortly after, which explains why Dwalin is so loyal to Thorin in the film (if his first memory of Thorin is leading them and feeding them in the wilds).

(AN2): **PAIRINGS**. Oh what joy. If only this was like Harry Potter with a hundred names to basically makes OC's with. But it's not. So for that reason I'll have to fill the world on my own (and hopefully with help from you). I'll hang on to Tauriel for that reason, but I'm not going to pair her with Kili (or if I do, it certainly wouldn't be during a couple week stint in a dungeon).

Therefore please suggest names for OC's. In fact, even create your own if you've got the skill. I'm fairy sure I'll call Dis' husband Nari for instance, but if you've got recommendation for the further children or spouses of the dwarves of Erebor, please do.

I'm undecided about Thorin. I may pair him, I may not. I may pair him with a female Bilbo, I may pair him with a dwarf woman. I may pair him with an elf or even one of the Dunedain. So feel free there too to suggest possibilities.

_Khagam – Father_

This first chapter departs from my typical writing I guess because it by necessity needs a certain detachment. If I continue this – and I plan to even if it could technically be a one shot – I think it'll settle down into writing more similar to Chasing Yesterday.

That's all for now.


End file.
